


Non-Standard Usage

by thewiggins



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Post-Episode: s07e22 Chosen, Tumblr Prompt, With just a pinch of angst, but no comics knowledge needed, kinda takes place in an au season 9, nothing actually depicted, some references to gore/violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23173798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewiggins/pseuds/thewiggins
Summary: Spike's attempt at a romantic gesture isn't quite going according to plan.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	Non-Standard Usage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rahirah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/gifts).



> For Rahirah who gave me the wonderful prompt _“I’m pretty sure that’s a non-standard usage.”_  
>  When I solicited prompts I said that they would probably be under 1,000 words and that I'd try to finish them in a week so as not to overthink it. Yeah, I was way off on both counts. My lack of insight into my own creative process is sometimes stunning. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and generous thenewbuzwuzz. But I couldn't resist making a bunch of changes since she last read a draft, so don't hesitate to point out any errors I may have missed!

Spike swore under his breath as he dug his weapon into the tough green flesh. It yielded reluctantly, releasing an irregular sphere which came free with a wet _pop_. He let it fall into the bowl, glowering at its misshapen form.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a non-standard usage of… whatever that is.” Spike heard Buffy’s voice from behind him and turned quickly, hiding the weapon behind his back. She was standing in the entrance to the kitchenette, looking bloody adorable in her pajama pants with the little penguins and her plain white cami, her hair still ruffled from bed. “What _is_ it anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh. And what were you doing with this ‘nothing’?”

“Oh. First morning in our new place and all. Was hoping to surprise you.”

“Well, you’ll have to get up a lot earlier in the morning if you want to catch the slayer by surprise,” Buffy replied, a playful grin animating her face.

“Damn. You foiled my evil plans. As always.”

Buffy leaned in, her lips brushing against his. Spike groaned, sliding his free arm around her and pulling her to his chest. The kiss was a glowing, brilliant thing and warmth bloomed inside his chest. Like all good things, it came to an end, and sooner than Spike would have liked. Their lips separated but he made no attempt to break free from her orbit. Her face, Spike noticed, was free of makeup beyond the faint shadow of yesterday’s eyeliner. She had pillow-creases on her left cheek. And Spike couldn't remember ever finding anyone more beautiful.

He still couldn't understand how on earth he'd gotten so lucky, what madness had overtaken the slayer that she'd decided to move in with him. And yet, somehow, she seemed as happy as he was. Well, Spike doubted that it was _possible_ for anyone to be as happy about anything as he was about this. He just wished he could wipe the dark smudge of anxiety from his mind, silence the whisper that he didn’t deserve this, that it was only a matter of time before she came to her senses or he buggered things up beyond repair.

“What I don’t get...” Buffy said, her smile going wry as her hand shot behind his back, grabbing what Spike had tried to hide and waving it in his face, “is why you were using _this_ on that poor defenseless honeydew.”

“Yes, well. I was making melon balls. Or trying to anyway.”

The object in question was a small metal tool ending in a roundish cup about an inch in diameter. In shape, it did look like a melon baller: if that melon baller happened to have been manufactured in a hell dimension. Its handle was short and broad and made out of some lumpy, oil-slick-black metal. The edges of the cup were sharp enough to draw blood. All in all, it didn’t look like something you’d pick up at your nearest Target. And, Spike thought, looking at the mushy blobs he’d carved out of the honeydew, it didn’t function quite the same either. Unless the flaw lay in his technique. Possible, considering he hadn't had much occasion to make _fruit salad_ of all things. Food preparation of any kind had been something that a proper Victorian gentleman simply didn't do and Dru had been more of a live-rat-with-her-morning-paper kind of girl. Post-chip, his culinary adventures hadn't gone much beyond microwaving blood and, ocassionally, hot wings.

“With this? Gotta say, it doesn’t look rated for kitchen use.”

Spike snorted. "Wouldn't think so. I got it off some Kythriki demons. See, Kythriki believe eyes are sacred, windows to the soul and all that...”

Buffy looked from Spike to the weapon, her expression registering first understanding, then revulsion. “So they used this to scoop them out of their victims?" She dropped it on the counter. "Ew."

“Er, yeah. Their own dead, too. Think there’s some form ritual cannibalism inolv—”

“Aaand I’m gonna stop you before you go any further, because therein lies a world of gross. Do I even want to ask how you got it from those creepy demon guys?”

“Oh, that’s simple. Angel and I cleared up a nest of them while we were working together. I kept this as a souvenir.”

“You know, as far as souvenirs go, most people are happy with a postcard.”

“I’m not most people, luv.”

“Don’t I know it. You weren’t planning to use it on anyone, where you?”

“No. Probably. Not unless they really deserved it.”

“I… guess I can live with that. What I’m still not clear on is why you were using the eye-scooper thingy on a _melon_. Which you then wanted me to eat.”

“In my defense, I sanitized it. Used enough bleach to clean a crime scene, can’t imagine it’s not sterile.”

“Still not seeing the why.”

“I… uh, couldn’t find the box with your kitchen tools. But weapons, on the other hand...” He gestured past the kitchenette to the small living room, scattered with stacked cardboard boxes. Most were Buffy’s, though he'd brought a few of them to Frisco from LA and the ship. From where he was standing he could see three labeled WEAPONS: two in Buffy’s handwriting and one in his own. Then there was the box that had held the eye-scooper, open on the kitchen island behind him. And he thought he'd stashed another in the bedroom somewhere.

“God,” Buffy said, covering her mouth to stifle a giggle. “We’re not exactly a normal couple, are we?”

Spike laughed. “Far from it. Think you missed your shot at normality?” Spike joked. “I hear things didn’t work out with Whitebread and his wife. You could always give him a call, I’m sure he still thinks of you as ‘the one that got away.’”

“You’re horrible,” Buffy said without malice, punching him playfully on the arm. “And Riley’s more likely to think of me as a lucky miss than the one that got away. But don't get too cocky. I’m still young, so if this whole thing doesn’t work out, I still have plenty of time to get with someone 'normal.'”

Spike frowned despite himself. Buffy was joking, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any truth to what she’d said. There was no way of knowing how long their relationship would last. There never was. He’d clung to the idea that he and Dru were eternal, but even that had come to an end. A necessary end, he saw now, but no less painful for it. And with Buffy…

“Then I’ll have to make sure this works out,” Spike said, drawing her in for a deep kiss. “Still,” he continued, hands on her shoulders, tilting his head as he peered into her face, “no regrets? We did just sign the lease, or rather you did, but it’s not too late to back out gracefully. I’ve still got a spaceship full of bugs that would be happy to have me back.”

“I'm sure they'd be thrilled but I've got no intention of backing out." She paused, a worried crease forming between her eyebrows. "You're not getting cold feet, are you?"

Spike winced. He knew full well how often Buffy had been left behind by men that supposedly loved her. "Never,” he said with feeling. “Well, except in the sense that they’re always on the coldish side, come to think of it."

"Oh, trust me, they are."

"But, I'm over the bloody moon about this. You know that don't you?"

"I do. And you know that I am too, right?"

Spike nodded, though some part of him was reluctant to concede her point.

“What should we do about this, though?” Spike gestured at the melon. “Do you still want...”

“Uh,” she said, tilting the bowl and watching juice pool around the sad green lumps. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, ‘cause I do, but I’m not sure about eating these. There’s something a little creepy about them. Especially now that I know about the eyeball thing. Eugh. How about we chop the rest into cubes instead? I think I remember around where I put the box with the kitchen knives. Just a sec…”

Buffy bustled around the living room for a minute, peering behind boxes and lifting piles of half-unpacked miscellanea.

“Ah-ha!” she cried, holding up a box labeled KITCHEN THINGS. She plopped it on the counter and pulled out a well-stocked knife block, a wide smile on her face. “And we’re in business!”

Spike picked up the bowl with his paltry offering. Pathetic. There was his romantic gesture down the drain.

“So, guess I’ll chuck these, then. Sorry luv,” he said, holding the bowl over the garbage and allowing the contents to splorch out. “I really was gonna do breakfast in bed, with fruit salad and eggs and those little triangular wedges of toast. The whole works, you know?”

Spike put the bowl in the sink and, as an afterthought, tossed the eye-scooper in after it.

“That’s OK, babe,” Buffy said, stepping to his side and putting a warm hand on his upper arm. “It really was a nice thought. Everything’s always hard right after moving into a new place. We can do the breakfast-in-bed thing another day. Besides,” she continued, leaning in close and dropping her voice to a husky whisper, “there’s other stuff I’d like to do in bed _after_ breakfast.”

Before Spike could form a response, Buffy had grabbed one of the knives and a cutting board from the box and started chopping at the honeydew with gusto.

“Do you mind getting out some bread?” she asked without turning her head. “I like your toast and eggs idea. We’ll just do it together. And of course, heat up something for you too. Check the fridge.”

Spike did, removing the lid from the styrofoam container he found there and giving its contents a sniff. “Otter?”

“Well, you know. Angel told me that at Wolfram and Hart you guys sometimes had special bloods. And I thought, moving in together is a pretty special thing. It’d be too bad if you had to celebrate it with nothing but pig’s blood.”

“I’d rather drink pig’s blood with you than some boutique blood with anyone else,” Spike replied, setting the container on the counter with a care that belied his words. “But… thanks.”

“No problem. I love you.”

And it was the casual way that she said it while chopping melon in _their_ kitchen, dressed in PJs and with her hair a mess, that made the whole thing _real_. This wasn't some secret she kept hidden in the dark. It was every day. _Maybe,_ he thought, _this really will work out._ Nothing lasted forever, Spike knew that. But he was going to treat every moment with her as the precious thing he knew it to be. And that might be almost enough.

“Love you too,” Spike replied, before grabbing the bread from the fridge and setting about helping to make the first of what he hoped would be many breakfasts together in their new home.


End file.
